


Drunk and Disorderly

by naity_sama



Series: Replay it in the Moonlight (RPF works) [1]
Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Vomiting, mentions of drug use, will add more tags as they apply
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naity_sama/pseuds/naity_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard tries to keep Aidan on the straight and narrow and Aidan tries not to disappoint Richard too much. But he can’t always help himself, and he’s still hanging out around the same old crowds, so he fucks up more than he’d like to admit. Richard is getting tired of Aidan’s shit, despite the fact that he really wants to like him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluepeony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluepeony/gifts).



> I plan to try and update at least every Friday, but no guarantees.  
> There will be some places in this story that may make people very uncomfortable. I will try to tag some of these in notes at the beginning of each chapter, as need demands they be applied. But otherwise, the general tagged warnings (ie, graphic violence/alcoholism) may show up in any chapter.  
> Thank you for reading and please enjoy~!

Richard lets one hand lie against the warm, damp skin of Aidan's chest. Leaning into it, Aidan lets his dark eyes flutter sleepily as that same, dopey smile he's worn for the last half hour curls his lips. Really, it may be just those five long fingers pressed gently into the thatch of soft hair that keeps the Irishman from buckling to the floor.

"Aidan, you're not wearing a shirt," Richard sighs out after a long moment of staring at his unexpected guest. Against his hand, the other wavers tenuously.

"'Know, mate."

"You're in my house." The way Richard says the words, the statement is almost a question.

"Yeah. It's a lovely house." Those god-awful hazel eyes stare innocently enough up at Richard, wide and unblinking from under dark brows and darker lashes.

"You're drunk," Richard mumbles, pointedly uncomfortable with those eyes staring up at him. Aidan may be younger and shorter, but its times like these that Richard feels so very small.

"Obviously." Aidan laughs just enough that Richard can smell the alcohol heavy on his hot breath.

With another pained sigh, Richard tries to push Aidan back just a little. Honestly, he just wanted to be able to get some room. Instead, the other man nearly falls back all the way. It's only Richard's quick thinking when he realizes that Aidan is about to go down that saves them both. One of his hands roughly grips Aidan's bare shoulder and the other grabs a flailing wrist, and he catches Aidan an instant before his head hits the wall. Their legs still become tangled, but not hopelessly so, and Richard is able to gently lower Aidan's slack body to the floor. Unhelpfully, Aidan starts laughing with breathless little guffaws, loosely grabbing at Richard's hand where he still grips his arm. With a defeated sigh, the Englishman lets Aidan hold his hand with twitching fingers. For a moment, he just stares.

Aidan's cheeks are rosy with laughter and booze, the stubbly scruff of his beard standing out that much more against his flushed skin. Those dark, winged brows are pulled in tight as eyes squeeze shut with merriment. His softly furred chest rolls and hitches with each chuckling breath as his warm, sweaty fingers curl into Richard's dry palm. With yet another long-suffering gust of air, Richard glances at where his hands had grabbed the other, and he winces. The skin is red, and likely going to bruise. He feels bad about it, but can't help feeling that perhaps Aidan deserves it, at least just a tiny bit. The drunken sod had let himself into Richard's home while he was out. There was no telling what else the little prat had gotten up to, really. And Richard really didn't want scrape him up off of the floor. Again. But that is exactly what he’ll have to do if he doesn't want to leave Aidan's limp body decorating his hallway.

Aidan’s chuckles had mostly degenerated into sleepy, plaintive noises by the time Richard made his decision. Carefully, the older man shook his hands free of Aidan and stepped over the lad. He would be considerate, but not overly so. His pale eyes roamed ahead as he stepped into the living room, and he had to fight the urge to bury his face in his hands. Still, he couldn’t help but groan at the mess. Empty beer bottles littered his coffee table, and there were a few laying discarded and dribbling, right on his nice rug. Bowls of half eaten food sat unattended; crackers and popcorn, and what might have been Saturday night’s microwaved leftovers. Possibly. Crumbs and bits of this and that had fallen carelessly to the carpet, and likely into the dark, leather sofa, as well. Richard bit back another groan. It was worse than he had initially thought.

Rubbing his face with both palms, Richard gave himself a long moment. He could already imagine the kitchen. Hopefully the bathroom had been spared. But this was already showing all the signs of one of Aidan’s occasional meltdowns. It was not entirely unusual that Aidan would sometimes stop by. It wasn’t even all that resoundingly odd that he was a bit drunk when he did. But this amount of excess...it spelled Trouble, with a capital T. Aidan hadn’t just gotten drunk. He had drowned himself in the bottom of a dozen or so tinted glass bottles. He had gotten soused. The fact that he had been smiling when Richard walked in the door meant that Aidan had sufficiently managed to forget whatever it was that had caused all this. And Richard was inclined to believe that he’d have to be the one to deal with it in the morning, too.

Grimacing, he decided on how to deal with the damage. After a moments thought, he turned off the muted cartoons flashing across the TV, and shook off the cushions from the sofa, doing his best to scrape the crumbs onto the floor. A small part of him, probably the one his mother had coached into some sort of domesticity, gave a soft little whimper at the act. Messes always made him uncomfortable, and this went against all his instincts. Dry lips pursed with dissatisfaction, Richard began picking things up and carrying them into the kitchen. It was a wreck. It was a testament to his state of mind that he didn’t bother sorting and cleaning. Simply, he dumped the food in the trash, left the soiled bowls in the sink, and haphazardly arranged all the bottles on the counter. Armed with a broom and dustpan, Richard did his best to chase down crumbs and elusive popcorn kernels, almost savagely sweeping until there wasn’t anything he could do without a vacuum.

Finally, there was nothing else to delay him from dealing with Aidan. Intently, Richard stared down at the young man. Dark, wild curls flared against the carpet in greasy ringlets as Aidan gently snored. Entirely at ease, his face was slack, eyelids softly fluttering as a line of drool inched its way across his flushed cheek. On another night, Richard might have found it endearing. Now, it just reminded him more than ever what he had gotten himself into by befriending Aidan.

As he slipped his arms none to carefully under the other's back to lift him up a bit, Richard thought of all the times he had done this. He had scraped Aidan off his doorstep the first time, about a month after they had met, when the boy had come knocking frantically at his door. That time, someone had threatened Aidan with a knife to the throat and chased him stumbling through the streets. He still had a little scar from the encounter. The next, Aidan had gotten a little too friendly with someone else's girl. That time, he'd shown up at Richard's house with a black eye, a split lip, and an empty bottle of Jack. Over the last two years, Aidan had probably shown up plastered at least seven or eight times. All for different reasons. None of them good, Richard surmised, as he hoisted Aidan and dragged him to the sofa. With a grunt, he tossed Aidan's top half onto the cushions and reached to swing those long legs up and over one of the arms. When Richard had done this the first time, he had done it because he had felt concerned about the scruffy, emotional wreck that had shown up at his door. He'd done all he could to make Aidan feel safe and comfortable, then. Now, the act had turned into a chore.

Richard's body felt leaden as his eyes stared blankly at the man on the couch. He couldn't keep opening his door. In fact, this time he _hadn't_ opened his door. Aidan had picked the lock, or found the spare key, maybe even crawled in through a window. But either way, he had let himself into Richard's home. And now that it had happened once, it would keep happening. Richard stared at those narrow, pretty features. He couldn't watch Aidan do this any longer. God and the green earth knew that Richard had tried.  
Closing his eyes with a heavy heart, Richard turned away. He locked the door and headed to bed, with the intent to clean up this mess in the morning.

 

* * *

 

Richard woke early. Earlier than normal, even. The first hint of light was only just beginning to streak the hazy mists of morning with the promise of dawn. His sleep had come poorly, and when it had, it was restless and filled with half-remembered flashes of turbulent dreams. At first he only laid there, completely blank from the dregs of slumber, with his rough cheek pressed into soft fibers. Then it all came back to him. Aidan. Aidan had happened. Again. Whatever will he might have possessed to move vanished from his body. Instead, he laid there, face down in his nightclothes. He could feel the pressure of his situation like a physical weight, holding him down. An emotional burden on his back, crushing him down into the mattress. He knew he couldn't keep this up any longer. Something had to change.

Richard stared at nothing, thoughts turned inward, roiling with discomfit and grave resolution. When his eyes blinked, impossibly blue in the burgeoning light, they were wet. It was the only outward sign of his distress, apart from the faintest crease to his brow. Richard could compare all the scenarios he had ever faced in his modest life and not be able hit upon one that pulled as deeply at his heart as this one. Leaving home, college, graduation, getting a good job—none of it had been this hard. Really, he had made his decision last night. No matter what happened this day, he would suffer through it. Richard's sigh of resignation was barely more than a gust of breath against the sheets. He was not happy, nay, _could_ not be happy. But he also knew that it was time to cut the poisoned thorn out before it festered any further. There is no doubt that it will hurt.

Determined not to lie in bed all day, now that he has finally settled to his choice, Richard gives himself no time to think his way out of it. He rises and fixes the bedspread, taking extra care to fold the corners down impeccably. He selects something both nice and comfortable from his closet, a casual cardigan to go over a loose button-down. He chooses the tan slacks, because they make him feel a bit more like the teacher he is on weekdays. Professor Armitage is always cool and collected and in control. Richard needs that right now; needs to feel that he can do the Right Thing. He showers, because that is what he does in the mornings, and he puts on his clothes. Its all very mechanical. He doesn’t need to think. When he puts his hand on the doorknob, he firms his jaw and pushes forward into the living room. It’s still in the barely contained shambles he left it in last night.

Richard’s eyes barely flick over Aidan’s lax form. He can tell the other is still breathing by the way his chest rises and falls. What he does concentrate on is restoring order. Cleaning is medicine to Richard. The act of washing dishes soothes him, just as the hungry purr of the vacuum sucks up his uncertainties alongside soiled bits that lie clinging to the floor. He doesn’t stop until the light shines full in the windows. By the time he has finally stopped, it is because there is nothing left to clean. He has groomed his house like the finest hound to be presented at show. Surfaces shine in the noonday sun that eases through sheer curtains, and where they part, light fairly sparkles. The only bitter counterpoint is Aidan. The youth lies curled upon himself against the leather cushions of the sofa. His hair lies lankly against his pale skin, like it hasn’t been washed in days. It probably hasn’t been, if Richard is any judge. He can smell the sour reek of sweat and booze amongst the greasy smell of unwashed skin. Aidan is ripe with it. Has been since last night, but it is much more apparent now. Richard stares long and hard at the long body laying gracelessly, and notes how arms begin to twitch and brows to crinkle plaintively. It won’t be long.

He sets a glass of water and some Tylenol on the end table, where he is sure that Aidan will find it, when he realizes that it is past noon and he hasn’t eaten. The thought of food isn’t as appetizing as it should be, but it gives him something to do while he waits for the Irishman to wake. If he knows Aidan at all, he will be hungry once he can stomach food.


	2. Falling Further

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some puking/vomit in this chapter. General tagged warnings (ie, graphic violence, death) may apply.

The first thing that Aidan comprehends is that he has the mother of all headaches. The second is the terrible taste in his mouth. After that, he can feel the drool drying down the side of his face, and the sensation as his sticky cheek peels itself from the leather. Leather. He's at Richard's house. The thought has only just formed before it begins to fragment, the victim of stabbing pains lancing through his skull. Aidan's face crumples in misery when the complaints made by his treacherous gut finally register. Long, trembling limbs make a weak effort to raise his weight from the sofa. As another cramp clenches his insides, Aidan manages to stagger upright and bolt for the loo. He doesn’t take note that the bathroom door is conveniently open, even though Richard likes to keep it closed. The only thing that he can concentrate on is his target, and he barks his shins on the cold tile when he collapses in front of it. Aidan has a single moment where he hovers on shaking elbows over the still bowl of water, staring blankly at his reflection, and thinks that maybe it won’t happen. In the next moment, he’s purging his guts all over the inside of the toilet between gasping breaths. There’s nothing beautiful about it. He heaves until he’s dry, and then he wretches until his entire body is taut and straining. 

Finally, he slumps against his arm, leaving a trail of spittle as his mouth rests against clammy skin. The ends of his hair, damp with vomit, press into his cheeks. Being utterly drained is a reality. Aidan’s breath comes in short, fast pants while his heart races, and it’s all he can do to keep himself from sliding to the floor. After a few long minutes, he manages to raise his head through the bongos in his skull and look around. There’s a pair of clean sweats folded on the counter; a blatant statement, courtesy of one Richard Armitage. If Aidan had felt better, he would have laughed. As it was, he moaned and managed to stand with a little help from the porcelain queen. 

"Could use a shower, mate." Aidan mutters to himself, bloodshot eyes staring critically at his sad reflection in the mirror as he stumbles by it. He shucks off his worn jeans while steadying himself against the shower door before he steps inside. Turning the cold water handle is like opening a sluice of glacier water. It drenches his naked body in an instant, plastering his greasy hair to his scalp and ripping a startled gasp from between his lips. Despite the discomfort, the cold water also has the added effect of clearing his muddled thoughts. For the first time in days, Aidan can think clearly again. 

A cold ball of something uncomfortable begins to coil in Aidan's gut and he fixes his eyes on the slick tiles at his feet in an effort not to let flashes of yesterday morning plaster themselves across his mind. Still, the memories try to rise and Aidan pushes them away with a shuddering breath, grabbing the soap and scrubbing at himself in the hope that doing something will distract him. He can't scrub the memories away, though. Aidan gets the sick feeling that he should be glad that he had only seen the bloody length of one familiar arm laying in the doorway before the door had begun to close. _"Beat it, sheep shagger. Don't want to see you around these parts any more." The door clicks shut softly on a creak of hinges, but not before Aidan sees Ciaran's arm flop down across the cracked tiles. Chunks of tooth dance across the floor when the meaty thump of the body follows. Aidan's eyes follow them before he can really make sense of it. Blood thickly smears the distinct tattoos, but doesn't leak from the visible wounds. He knows then. Dead men don't bleed._

Aidan growls and beats the sides of his fists against the cold wall until they hurt worse than his still throbbing head. Frigid water drips down his nose and over his squinted eyes, and he doesn't suppress a shudder. Before he can let the chill take him any more, he furiously rubs shampoo into his hair and rinses it. He almost leaves the water on in his rush to get out, and he drips all over the mat as he stands there shivering, with one hand braced against the towel rack. Ripping one off of it, Aidan sets to with it, vigorously attacking his sodden form with the soft cotton. He can feel his teeth gnashing as he works, the strain in his jaw and the heavy feeling across his chest pressing at the backs of his eyes. With a shake of his head he tosses the cloth away and pulls on the dark sweats Richard had left for him. Richard. Aidan stands in the middle of the bathroom and pants softly into the chill air, his eyes wide and his cheeks hallowed. _Richard._

He buries his head into his hands and drags them down his face, pulling at the skin and puffing out his cheeks. He couldn't even remember how he had gotten here. Whether or not Richard had let him in. Whether or not Richard had even been there. It had been a school night. Aidan rubs at his eyes, willing the sting to fade out. He glances blearily at the mirror, and can see how vulnerable he looks with his dark hair wet and limp upon his skull, with the whites of his eyes showing. Richard was going to be mad. Aidan let shame well in his breast, and with it came other emotions. Guilt. Fear. Apprehension. Relief. With a shaky exhale, Aidan peers out of the bathroom. He can hear movement in the kitchen. His dark, stinging eyes skitter restlessly through the parts of the house that he can see, looking for anything out of place - any signs as to what had happened last night. Nothing is out of place. Slowly, he steps out and cautiously walks across pristine carpet. He doesn't hesitate to swallow two or three of the pills he finds set out for him, before stopping a few paces from the kitchen. Suddenly, Aidan feels too naked and too small to be in this house. The clock chimes softly and it only serves to make him feel less like he belongs here in this comfortable place. He doesn't belong here. Aidan's fist clenches and he lets his head drop. He doesn't get a chance to turn around, however.

"You might as well come sit down." Richard's voice is composed and deep, and without any hint as to what the tall Englishman may be thinking. Aidan glances up, and he knows that Richard has been watching him. His eyes meet that pale blue gaze for a long moment, and there is something hard there. Something Aidan recognizes as Richard distancing himself from him. His breath catches in his throat on a sob, and everything he's been trying to hold back begins to crumble. Aidan can feel the naked fear creep over his own face as it coils out of his gut. Something is about to happen, and all Aidan can see is his friend's blood and Richard's cool, judging stare. He lets it go with a low, keening wail and breaks the gaze. It rings higher and higher in his ears and he can't hold himself up anymore. Aidan doesn't cry out as he drops to the floor, his elbows hitting harshly against the tiles just inside the small kitchen. He doesn't try to support himself. His bare chest shudders and trembles in the open air before finally drawing a long sucking, gasping breath. When he lets it out again, it comes as a choking sob, and he gives himself into it. He cries into the unfeeling tile and Richard doesn't move, except to shift once in his chair uncomfortably. It only makes Aidan blub harder. 

He almost cries himself sick, and its only at that point when Aidan can begin to get a handle on it. His entire head hurts; his eyes are strained from clenching, his face is red and sore, and his nose is dripping. Mouth dry and his moans croaking, Aidan finally gets his breathing under control enough to pick himself up a little. He doesn't look at Richard yet, because he's afraid of what he'll see there. It scares him that he wants to seek Richard's approval so desperately, and even more that he even cares. The Irishman drags himself to his knees, feeling pitiful and low and drained to the dregs. He has nothing left to give. When he finally screws up the courage to see, Richard's expression looks sad. It isn't quite pity he sees, but it isn't far from it, Aidan knows. 

Aidan has lost a lot of things in life, and most of them he had been content to let go. Some of them he had tried to cling to, but he hadn't the strength of will to keep them. He can tell he's losing Richard, too. Right now, at this moment, that's the thing that hurts the most. Aidan looks into those baby blues, and his dark gaze is wild and desperate. His whites are showing and his heart pounding as his damp hair tangles across his tear-streaked face. On his hands and knees, Aidan has lost whatever shreds of dignity he had kept.

_"Richard"_ , Aidan gasps, searching for any kind of understanding on his friend's face. When he fails to find it, he bows his dark head and lets his shoulders tremble in abject misery. Aidan doesn't see Richard's expression change, but he feels the hand settle on his mussed curls. He looks up, stark hope and fear warring on his unguarded face. When those fingers clench in his hair, Aidan sobs out another breath and presses his face into Richard's knee, clinging weakly. And Richard doesn't step away.

\----------------------------------------------------

They stay like that for several minutes. Aidan sobs softly and brokenly into Richard's slacks as strong fingers gently rub his scalp. Eventually his cries peter out to even breaths and Richard urges him to his feet and into a chair. Aidan doesn't look at him, but keeps his eyes on the grain of the table. He looks different than any time before. Broken, Richard thinks. After another awkward silence, Richard speaks.

"This is the last time this is going to happen." His voice is soft, but unyielding. "I can't keep ding this. You can't keep doing this. It has to stop." He pauses, because Aidan is looking at him, and he can feel that he has Aidan's full attention. He can see the fear on the other's face, and it spurs on his next words.

"If you leave, you can't come back. There's no coming back. If you can't follow my rules, then you're back in that place. You'll have to go back to your - friends." Richard holds Aidan's gaze with certainty. They look at each other, and Aidan breaks the silence with a strangled laugh.

"I can't go back, Richard. I can't go back. They're all _dead._ "

The world stops in an instant, and then it moves on when Richard blinks. And then Aidan tells him everything.


	3. Rock Bottom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry it has taken me this long to update! I hit a bit of a block after finals and it took me a bit to squeeze this one out.  
> I apologize if the view points seem to flip flop a little.

Richard wearily settles down in his high-backed chair and presses his fingers against his temples in a vain attempt to stop his budding headache. Short, black hair shifts and flutters against his skin as he massages at his aching head. In front of him, Aidan's dark eyes are staring intently at the glossy table top, shaky fingers idly tracing the dark grain of the wood. On the gleaming counter, a plate of eggs and bacon sits, forgotten and long grown cold. Neither of them notice it. Aidan's tale had been long and stumbling; often filled with awkward silences and tears. Richard is only just now trying to string it together into something cohesive. It all reads too much like a bad movie. Aidan's group of friends - not quite gangsters, but not far off - had drawn the attention of the bigger fish in the sea; far bigger fish with jagged, tooth-lined maws and iron skin. Most of Aidan's friends had been nameless, faceless entities that had long ago disappeared in the murky waters of low society. They had been almost impossible to keep record of, and the government didn't know if they were dead or alive. Now, those who hadn't left were either dissolved into the new hierarchy or dead. That's where the problem with Aidan came in. He had never really been a true part of the circle. He had hung around the edges of a shifting, milling crowd made up of the dregs of human society without ever really dipping more than a few toes. When push came to shove, Aidan was a bit of a drunk, but he didn't live on the bottle. He had tried a few drugs, but never gotten hooked on the hard stuff. If he had, he'd probably be another nameless body floating in a creek somewhere, Richard suspects. So, when Aidan was given the option to run, he had taken it.

Now, Aidan sits quietly in Richard's kitchen with absolutely nothing left and nowhere else left to go. That morning, Richard had been prepared to tell Aidan to get lost for good. But in the face of Aidan's plight, Richard's traitorous, gentle heart can not bear to be so cold. But in either event, things would not continue as they have been. Richard would make sure of that. Steepling his fingers in front of his long nose, Richard nods his head sharply and pushes his chair out from the table. When he stands, Aidan finally looks at him, but does not meet his eyes. There has been a lot of that happening since Aidan had stumbled into Richard’s life. The young Irishman wears his emotions on his sleeve, and when he won’t meet Richard’s eyes, it is almost always because he’s feeling shame and a healthy dose of guilt. It’s a familiar look on him, and one Richard wished he didn’t need to use so often. Without a word, he microwaves the cold eggs and drops the plate in front of his guest. While Aidan begins to pick at his food, Richard begins to clean the pans he had used in cooking it. He has a dishwasher that had come with the house, but he almost never uses it. He finds that the feeling of hot water running over his hands as he works is soothing. It also gives him time to think. The soft scrape of metal on ceramic and the running of water from the tap are the only sounds in his little house. Somehow, it all feels ridiculously domestic, despite the heavy tension in the air. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Aidan watches with barely concealed interest, Richard fetches his briefcase and places several piles of papers on the table. They are the summary of hard hours of student labor, sorted by class and test number, multiple choice and attached essay. Wordlessly, Richard places a test key slip on each of the multiple choice piles and slides the group over to Aidan's side of the table. The stunned look on Aidan's face is priceless as Richard holds out a red marking pen for him to grab.

"You want the fate of a hundred smart, rich college kids to rest in my hands?" Aidan's incredulous stare and disbelieving tone only strengthens as Richard waves the pen at him with a quirked eyebrow. Although Richard is a teacher at the local college, he does not often work at home when Aidan is around. The number of times that he has done so can be counted on just one of Aidan's fingers. This change in dynamic is something new; a strange and exciting kind of different. Aidan snatches the pen with a frown and cautiously pulls a stack of papers closer. His dark eyebrows furrow attractively, and some of the rigid tension eases from his hunched shoulders as he concentrates on the words on the paper. Soon he is carefully marking wrong answers, and Richard turns his own attention to the essays. They stay that way for several hours, the morning sun shifting high over head as the day grows older. They only pause when Richard rises to fetch a fresh cuppa and he asks Aidan if he would like some. It's such a mundane question that for a moment Aidan can't think of an answer. He stares blankly up at the older man as if he cannot grasp the content of the question asked before his mind catches up. He murmurs a quiet assent and casts his gaze down at the papers under his hand for a long moment without seeing them. The soft clink of a steaming mug settling near his elbow startles Aidan and he twitches as he mutters a thank you without looking up. Richard makes a noncommittal sound and returns to his papers as Aidan stares raptly at the swirling steam.

In all the time that they had known each other, they had never spent time together quite like this. It wasn't in Aidan's nature to stay still or quiet for long, and Richard often avoided letting the often troubled youth in on the more personal aspects of his life. More often than not, if Aidan was sober and peppy, he'd make a show of arriving at Richard's door with some bit of interesting news or another. Richard always made time to listen interestedly over his morning cup on the porch, and he'd often engage the lad with questions that tested Aidan's knowledge of the subject at hand. When Aidan's answers finally dried up, Richard would turn to him with a pleasant smile and tell him the histories and lore that were associated with what news he had brought that day before sending him on his way. On those days, Aidan always left early, with a smile on his face and a bounce in his step. This day, however, is the first time Richard has ever offered him anything to do. And never before has Aidan been asked if he would like a cup, although he has taken breakfast with Richard many times. In its own way, the gesture is a truce. At the same time, it is also a reminder that he is no longer a willful child. But most of all, the steaming mug is an invitation to stay. Eyes on the spiraling steam, Aidan curls his broad hands around the mug and takes a careful sip. He can feel Richard watching him, but when Aidan glances up, Richard seems fully focused on perusing his students papers. Aidan doesn't believe it for a second, and watches out of the corner of his eye as he brings the mug back up to his face. This time he doesn't miss Richard's pale blue eyes shifting over to stare at him, and Aidan smiles into the mug as their eyes catch

Richard stares back at Aidan for a long moment, taking in the scruffy stubble taking up residence along the edge of his angled jaw and the way his mouth pulls up when he smiles. He drinks in the way air-dried black curls tangle thickly in messy heaps over Aidan's round ears and brush the tops of his naked shoulders. He rakes in dark, plentiful lashes fluttering around hazel eyes, slanted cheeks, and the rosy parting of lips that speak often and loudly. Aidan can feel Richard's pale, glacier-blue eyes measuring him up and filing away every tiny little detail. It's more than a bit unnerving and his smile, small to begin with, starts to falter. And then Aidan's jaw drops when the Englishman speaks..

"I'll be expecting you to begin taking classes at the college. On my dime, of course, so you had better not waste it." The amused rumble of Richard's voice splits the silence of the room and Aidan's hands nearly drop the mug. He manages to spill tea all over himself as he fumbles at it, finally catching it in both hands and thunking it firmly on the table away from the papers.

_"School?_ You - you want me to go to _school?!,_ " Aidan finally splutters, wiping furiously at the hot liquid dripping in runnels down his downy chest.

"Why not?" Richard's answer sounds terribly amused, and Aidan can't help but curl his lip when he sees the smug, infuriating little smirk plastered on the older man's face. 

"Think this is funny, do you?" Aidan glares darkly at him from under impressively pinched brows, even as he snatches the napkins that Richard is offering him from across the table. He chooses to ignore the way Richard's hand has come up to his face to hide a smile. Instead, he sets to angrily sopping up the mess on himself and the edge of the table, throwing dirty glares every time he hears the other stifle a chuckle.

“And just what do you expect me to do at _‘college’_ , mate? I’m not exactly college material, and you know it! Do you know how much stuff I’d have to steal to afford something like that, anyways?!” Aidan’s face blanches the moment he bites out the last sentence, and he throws the wet napkins down on the table and faces away from Richard. The other can still see the way his jaw thrusts forward and how his lips are pressed tightly together as a red flush blankets his cheeks. 

“I’ll certainly be expecting you _not_ to bloody _steal_ anything, first of all.” Richard’s voice is steely and as cold as mid-winter ice. He had suspected that Aidan was stealing to keep himself afloat, but it still rankled to hear it from the horse’s mouth. “And I won’t have you drinking your life away. No more fighting. No more ‘sleeping around’. Any of that and I’ll kick you out.”

_“Kick me -”_ Aidan rises to his feet and punches his hands down on the table, splashing another ring of lukewarm tea around the mug.

“And do not try to feed me any of that ‘not college material’ _crap,_ Aidan.” Richard is meeting Aidan’s angry, wide-eyed stare with his own intense scowl. “You’ve a perfectly good mind when you care to use it, and I’ve seen it first hand. I suspect you will have no problem with most of the basic courses. What you choose to pick for your major is up to you, but you **_will_** attend all of your classes and you **_will_** keep your grades up to the best of your ability.” Richard throws a hand up to stop Aidan’s flustered attempt at an interruption and it works. He can hear the furious clack of teeth as Aidan snaps his mouth shut and seethes with clenched jaws. He’s dealt with numerous petulant and childish displays of emotion, and Aidan’s is no different.

“If you can adhere to those rules, I will cover the expenses and let you stay here. If you cannot, then I will not be responsible for what happens to you. It is your choice. Choose to leave now, and we will never see each other again.” Although Richard has raised his voice now and then through his tirade, he has remained sitting, because he knows that it will make him appear confident. Inside, Richard’s gut is a coiling tumult of emotion as he watches Aidan sneer and clench his fists. He isn’t surprised that Aidan’s fiery temper has reared its ugly head. It’s how Aidan deals with confrontation, Richard knows, although he has never seen a display of it like this. He tries not to wince as Aidan spins and punches at the wall with an angry shout, but doesn’t quite succeed. The other’s complexion had become an interesting, mottled red hue as he worked himself up into a tantrum. Now, his broad shoulders shake and tremble with anger as he hangs his head and breathes with deep, rasping exhalations. To calm his own nerves, Richard picks up his forgotten cup of tea and sips from it. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------

When Aidan spins around again with a black glare, he is confronted by Richard calmly sitting and sipping his tea, as if none of this matters to him. For a moment he entertains reaching forward to knock it to the floor, where it will shatter into satisfying pieces. His hand is already rising without his notice and he clenches his fist and drops it to his side with a frustrated growl as he looks away. He’s never been this angry in his life. He can feel all the muscles in his jaw clenched together until his teeth hurt. The fact that he couldn’t force words out right now if he wanted to is just making him angrier. In another fit of pique he punches at the wall again, and feels the pain blossom across his knuckles. It never even occurs to him, in all his rage, that he could be hitting Richard instead. All he knows is that his stomach is queasy from the knotted tension in his body and that if he stays here another moment he’ll burst. With an inarticulate roar of frustration, he throws himself from the room and stomps a few circles around the sofa. It only occurs to him then that he could leave right now - just walk out the door and never come back. Something about that thought is sobering like a bucket of cold water to the face, and he finds himself panting, and drenched in sweat, standing in front of the door. His hand is already on the knob and it’s half-open. He can see the afternoon sun shining down on the green grass and the sad little patch of flowers Richard had planted at the beginning of Spring. Aidan had relentlessly teased him about those poor, half dead flowers from the moment he had seen them. Every time Aidan brought them up, Richard would blush and stammer and eventually exclaim that he’d like to see Aidan do better.

Very quietly, Aidan closes the door and hangs his head. The aftermath of his anger has left him exhausted, and his headache is back with pounding intensity. When he walks into the kitchen again, he meets Richard’s eyes with unfamiliar trepidation. He isn’t prepared for Richard’s proud smile, nor the steaming mug of tea waiting for him. But its the first time in a long time that he feels like he has done something right. He doesn’t even try to hide the tears that well up as he grasps the mug, but he is glad that Richard pretends not to notice.


	4. Dinner for Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a bit of trouble getting this one out. I think it could be a little longer, and that it's not entirely quite what I wanted. Still, I'm posting it and moving on.

Aidan couldn't remember the last time he had actually been taken shopping like this. His mother had stopped taking him long before he had graduated from school and bought himself a one-way ticket to London. Of course, he had bought himself things before; mostly second-hand clothes paid for with stolen money. Almost never anything brand new, though. Aidan stares into one of the dressing room mirrors, pulling at the stiff feel of new fabric where the cuffs of the shirt brush the undersides of his wrists. He can feel the price tags dangling and fluttering against his arm, and resists the urge to see just how much a crisp, white dress shirt bought at a nice store costs. Against his thighs, the soft brush of pressed slacks is weird and foreign. Richard had insisted on a belt, too, and the unfamiliar weight of the slim band is vaguely unsettling. He barely recognizes his own reflection. He looks entirely respectable with his shirt tucked into his dark slacks in a socially-approved manner. Its strange and unnerving, and he knows that he looks skittish and uncomfortable when he steps back out so that Richard can see. Richard, it turns out, is very good at picking out nice, respectable clothing. Every single article of clothing he has handed Aidan makes him look like the young college student he will eventually be. It's almost frightening, really, how well the young Irishman cleans up. Richard nods his approval and looks pleased with himself, just as he has the last five times Aidan came out of the dressing room. Aidan looks worriedly at the large pile of things that Richard has amassed for him as he turns around to change again, this time into the clothes Richard had lent him that morning. Richard already has six - SIX nice shirts, five pairs of nice pants, a few ties and belts, an evening jacket, and one cheery-colored cardigan that Aidan is not intending on wearing willingly any time soon if he can help it. At least he had only insisted on getting Aidan one nice pair of dress shoes. He had tsked and frowned over Aidan's beat-up Converse all morning while the younger tried to convey that the shoes were in perfectly serviceable condition and that no, he really didn't see the need for more than two pairs of shoes. In the end, the Englishman had let him keep his worn shoes, and for that Aidan was grateful. 

Pulling the over-sized black t-shirt back over his head, Aidan gave his curls a shake to settle them and toed his scuffed shoes back on. He could hear Richard outside, talking to one of the clerks. Aidan is surprised when she addresses him as Mr. Armitage, and curiously peeks out of the changing room as he puts the shirt and pants back on their hangers. The smiling young blonde is cheerfully folding all of Aidan's new clothes and asking Richard about his weekend so far. Aidan doesn't miss the way Richard's face smoothes over for an instant before he replies about the good weather and lack of rain. When he steps out with the last of the clothes, half-raising the hangers unsurely, she takes them from him with a bright smile and Aidan feels stupid as he stands there with one hand in the air. He lets it drop to his side and tries not to look too uncomfortable with being out of his element as he follows them to the check-out counter. Aidan can't even look at the register as everything is rung up, but he winces when she tells Richard the total. He barely manages not to look terrified when Richard pays for it all without any signs of distress.

"Alright. Now, lets head over to the next place and get you something a little more casual, shall we?" The fact that Richard seems to be pleased has Aidan's shocked face paling considerably. Richard's good cheer doesn't make Aidan feel any better. Still, he doesn't even protest as Richard guides him out the door and to the car.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hours later, Aidan thinks he has it figured out. It is very possible that Richard _enjoys_ shopping, the same way that rich women with tiny dogs in their purses do. Having no one else to shop for but himself, however, he rarely gets the chance to splurge. This is only one of the possible reasons that Aidan has managed to concoct for his whirlwind shopping adventure, and while it lacks the believability of others, its the one he settles on. The second, and honestly more likely reason, is that Richard is doing this because he truly _wants_ to help Aidan. Either way, Aidan doesn't even know where to begin with his new wardrobe. He's sitting on the stiff, rarely used mattress in Richard's guest bedroom, surrounded by colorful bags of things that are now _his_. It doesn't feel like reality. Its like he's living in one of the happy little pipe dreams he used to have when he was sleeping in bus stations in the middle of winter; dreams in which he had a nice flat, a good job with great pay, a dog or a girlfriend, and he could buy anything he could want or need. Returning to reality from one of those had always been a big letdown, and only served to make the rest of the cold night more miserable. Suddenly, he's miles away from that life, in a place where its warm and sunny, and it's only just beginning to register that he is not, in fact, dreaming.

Aidan is in one of the many rooms in Richard's small house that he had never been in before yesterday. Now, according to Richard, this is Aidan's room. Aidan looks around at the caramel-colored, carved wooden paneling that reaches partway up the walls, which are a rich shade of cream with golden accents painted in swirling patterns. There are half-filled bookshelves along the wall, and two large, paned windows with gauzy white curtains that swirl lazily in the breeze. The set of drawers and a closet that have been hastily emptied of a few extra winter coats so that Aidan can have a place to keep all his new things. And he has a lot of new things. Before, where he had had just the one pair of pants and the single scuffed pair of shoes that he had turned up in at Richard's door, he now has everything. There are underwear and socks and jeans and shirts and nice clothing for when he begins his classes. He now has a pair of shiny black leather shoes, and his own toothbrush in the bathroom. And he owes Richard for all of it. Aidan flops back onto the bags and covers his face with his arms, letting out a groan of distraught frustration. He feels small, like a little kid again. Except, he really hadn't had all this much, even then. He had been lucky if he could convince his mother to part with enough money to buy clothing for school when he had grown out of what he had. She had barely cared if he came home at all, most of the time. He'd never had to deal with being told to clean his room or being grounded or any of the usual childhood woes. It's why he started drinking in the first place. Even now, his hand aches for the feel of cold glass and his throat throbs for the burn of liquor. He wants that familiar feeling to help him cope with all of this. He's pretty sure, however, that Richard won't take him in a second time.

Aidan sits up and is startled when he feels something wet hit his arm, and in that moment he realizes that he has been crying. Warm, wet tears are slowly trickling down to his chin and are beading in his stubble, and the hair on the sides of his face is damp. With a disgusted huff, he wipes at his eyes with a sleeve until they stop watering. He's cried almost every day for the better part of a week, and its starting to become a habit that he doesn't particularly care for. Determinedly, he grabs up a bag by the handles and upends it on the bed. Jeans and t-shirts spill across the mattress in a heap. The next bag follows, and the next, until everything is dumped in a colorful jumble on the bed. He sorts them into untidy piles and begins ripping off the tags and stickers, growling at the prices as he reads them before throwing them to the floor. By the time he's finished that, he's made a right mess of the room. There are clothes and bits of paper and plastic everywhere. Sitting in the middle of it all, Aidan angrily wipes at his eyes and throws a bundle of socks at the far wall. It gently thumps against the wall and tumbles down to the carpet, unsatisfying in its lack of damage. Dark, red-rimmed eyes stare at it for a long moment before Aidan finally begins to properly fold and sort the clothing. He investigates the closet and the drawers and begins putting things away. He's holding one of a handful of plaid button-down shirts, the main thing Aidan had insisted on for casual wear, when he hears Richard call.

"Aidan! Please, come help me in the kitchen!" Richard's deep voice carries clearly through the house and Aidan shoves the last handful of shirts in a drawer without folding them. He takes in all the paper littering the floor and knows he'll have to clean it up later. He takes a moment to duck into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and pat his skin dry with a towel to make it look a little less like he's been crying again. With a last swipe at his eyes, he wanders into the kitchen and stares. Richard is moving around quickly, tending several pots on the stove. He turns to grab something off of the table and spots the young Irishman. 

"Perfect!" Richard sounds delighted as he grabs Aidan's elbow. Without further ado, Aidan finds himself being pushed at the stove with a wooden spoon tightly clutched in one hand. When he stares at the simmering pots cluelessly for several seconds, Richard takes pity on him.

“Use this to hold the lid so you don’t burn yourself, and give it a good stir. Take care to make sure nothing is sticking to the bottom of the pan. About once every minute or so. Like this.” Richard distractedly grabs the spoon back and gives a quick stir to one of the pots. He thrusts it back into Aidan’s hand and leaves the potholder sitting on the lid as he rushes to the other end of the counter. Aidan watches him for a moment before he grabs the pot holder and tentatively lifts the lid of a different pot. He almost drops it as the steam escapes and hits the sensitive skin of his wrist. Cursing, he wields the spoon with a passion borne of anger and gives the bubbling red sauce a hearty beating. It smells good enough to make his mouth water and his empty stomach grumble. Glancing at Richard, he watches the way the older man wields his knife, chopping away at something that might be fresh garlic. It certainly smells like garlic, the pungent aroma being strong throughout the kitchen. Aidan opens the last pot, but there’s nothing in it but roiling water. He looks helplessly towards Richard, who points at a large bowl filled with dry pasta and tells him to dump it in, stir it and cover it. Aidan falls into an easy routine as Richard bustles about behind him. Once, Richard comes over and has Aidan open the sauce pot so he can dump in what is most definitely minced garlic. Aidan stirs it in and watches the Englishman from the corner of his eye, his dark-lashed gaze lingering curiously as Richard kneads dough with his hands. He’s not sure what, in actuality, Richard is making. Aidan can’t cook much more than macaroni and cheese, which comes in a box with clear instructions. Although, not fool-proof ones, as he had learned the hard way. Now the other is rolling the dough flat with a wooden pin. Aidan dutifully stirs the pasta while he watches the other man work. Eventually Richard cuts the flattened dough and drifts back to Aidan’s side of the room, peering into the oven and poking at the pasta with a happy grin. Its then that Aidan notices Richard’s flower-patterned apron, and he doesn’t bother to smother a startled laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Richard’s smirk is companionable and friendly as his blue eyes meet Aidan’s dark ones. He quirks his brow when Aidan glances down, and looks down as well before ducking his head in an embarrassed gesture. “It was a gift from my sister. I swear it.” He finally manages to rumble out, his pale cheeks reddening as Aidan lets out another snort of laughter. Richard self-consciously dusts his hands on the apron and turns back towards the stove, likely to hide the blush on his cheeks. He has Aidan turn off the heat and drain the pasta in the sink during the time that he is reaching into the oven to pull out a dish of meatballs. Within minutes, Richard is plating up spaghetti and meatballs with a side of green beans. There is crisp garlic bread from the nearby bakery to eat with it, and Aidan’s mouth is watering as he sits down. He barely stops to blow on his food before shoveling a forkful in his mouth, and as a result spends the next minute carefully sipping ice-water to cool the burning on his lips and tongue. Although initially worried, Richard is now laughing at him from across the table. Aidan makes sure his glower looks equal parts hurt and affronted as he carefully blows on another forkful of food before putting it in his mouth. Richard only laughs harder as he twines pasta around his fork. Seeking to distract Richard, Aidan glances around and lets his eyes land on the dough that Richard had been working on while making dinner.

“What is that stuff you were making, anyways?” Aidan nods his scruffy chin at the counter and takes a hearty bite out of the bread, closing his eyes in momentary bliss.

“Oh, that? It’s noodles. For lasagna. You can help me make it after dinner, or you won’t have anything to eat for tomorrow while I’m at work.” Richard is giving him that smug little smile again, and Aidan frowns doubtfully at the raw pasta. When Richard laughs, his eyes take on a gleam and the skin creases attractively at the corners as the deep sound of his voice rings through the room.


End file.
